


the only rule that matters

by callmearcturus



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Pining, M/M, Martin becomes Head of the Institute, season four divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-25 08:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21353251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/callmearcturus
Summary: When it comes right down to it, there is only one rule that matters: find what your enemy wants, and do the opposite.or:Martin's already been the functional Head of the Magnus Institute for months. Basira reads the bylaws, finds something useful, and decides they all may as well make things official.Season Four Divergence, in which Martin becomes Head of the Institute through no fault of his own, and things spiral from there. Some shenanigans, some plot, and a lot of pining.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 60
Kudos: 505





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing prepared me for the amount of emotional intensity and pining in season four of TMA. I started playing around with this idea via shitposts on my tumblr before realizing actually? Actually???? Martin running the Institute might be a fantastic idea.
> 
> Let's find out.
> 
> Oh and let's say this diverts... Before "Bloody Mary" but after Jon reaches Peak Pining Over Martin, because that's about where I wanna branch from.

When the dust settled much later on, what Jon took comfort in was the fact that really, when you got right down to it, everything was Basira's fault and for once, for _once_, he was entirely blameless.

It began when Basira let herself abruptly into Jon's office, holding a few printed pages in her grip. "Hey, I need you to find Martin," she told him, apropos to nothing.

Immediately, Jon's spine straightened like someone has driven a stake into it. "What's wrong? Is he in danger?"

"What, no," Basira said, giving him an impatient look. "I found something that could help us, I just need to show it to him. You know how hard he is to find."

Martin wasn't actually difficult for Jon to find. The sense of him up on the top floor was a constant ripple of knowledge, just part of the catalog of things Jon always _knew_ these days. He even knew when Martin changed offices, hopping between the rooms twice or sometimes thrice a week in his effort to avoid people. He knew when Martin returned to the head office and sat behind Elias' old desk once again. He knew Martin never stayed there long.

Jon knew all this. He just was forbidden from _using_ the knowledge for anything. Quite different.

Tipping his head vaguely upward, he reached for a location. "He's pacing one of the rooms on the top floor. I'll show you."

Together, they ascended the grand stairway, passing the other landings until the reached the top. A few hallways branched from this place, multiple offices available. Most weren't used, especially in the wake of Peter Lukas and his habit of forcibly retiring anyone unlucky enough to cross his path.

Martin was currently in the office directly across from Elias', his presence a faint hum of certainty through the door. Jon nodded to Basira.

She nodded back, knocked two brisk beats into the door frame, then let herself in.

Jon followed, the desire to lay eyes on Martin and ascertain his current state a dull ache. It'd been with him months now, since the _last_ time Martin had sent him away.

Martin looked up from something he's reading— _a statement,_ Jon could tell— and the scowl that came across his face did nothing to dampen how exciting it was to see him. "What… what are you two doing here? I'm busy."

Basira knuckled one hip, tapping her sheaf of paper against her thigh. "Whatever you're reading can wait. I'm sure what _I've_ been reading is much more interesting right now."

"That's presumptuous." His lip jut out slightly. "Whatever it is—"

"It's the bylaws established with the Magnus Institute's inception," Basira said over him. She had a particular air to her when she felt her role in a conversation took precedence. Jon often found it really aggravating when aimed at him, and winced as Martin glared at her. "They outline the various roles of people in the organization and how it has to be run."

"Right. So?"

Basira held out the papers to Martin. He stared at them like they might bite him before tossing his own on the desk, relenting and taking them.

"There are a handful of positions in the Institute that are considered integral to operations," Basira said. "They have to remain filled, and they are subject to extra regulations."

Pushing his glasses up his nose, Martin looked over the papers.

Seized by a tightening fist of curiosity, Jon stepped around Basira and went to lean over Martin to do the same. 

He stiffened and looked up at Jon. "What?"

"Just reading along," Jon said. Then, to Basira: "What's this have to do with Martin?"

"Nothing directly, yet," Basira said. "But obviously one such position is the Head of Institute. There can't _not_ be one, which is why Lukas probably took over for Elias if they're friends or what have you."

"Who even knows," Martin muttered. "Is there a point to this?"

"Yeah, the point's this: these important positions are subject to a negligence clause."

Jon's eyes scanned over the relevant lines in the document, which Basira had highlighted with a serious yellow hue. It took a second for the implications to unfurl in his mind. Really, applying anything so mundane as a _negligence clause_ to something like this seemed atrocious in a deeply satisfying way. "Oh," Jon breathed, pressed a finger to his mouth, shushing himself.

"What?" Martin looked between him and Basira. "What is it?"

Basira met Jon's eyes, and for once, there was a gleam of something there. A shared secret between them. "Question is… how long's Peter Lukas been out?"

A naked surprise took over Martin's face. "Come again?"

"Don't worry about it, I know the answer. He's not been seen on premise, not signed into any computer on the network, not _been here_ for three months. I checked with HR."

"Three months and seventeen days," Jon announced.

"So _what?_" Martin asked. "He— he does that! He leaves! That's what he's got me for, to run the place in his stead yeah."

"Problem is he hasn't put in for leave and hasn't given any official notice of his absence." She stepped forward, took the pages from Martin, and rearranged them so another was on top. "If you'd be so kind to read the highlighted portion."

Jon could understand most languages now, but legalese was its own special, particular devil. He read the passage a few times before the meaning came together.

Essentially: Peter Lukas was guilty of neglecting his position, and was subject to immediate removal.

This, in Jon's opinion, was great news.

However, Martin simply shrugged and held the papers back out to Basira. "So?"

"So we can _remove him from this shitty equation,"_ Basira said viciously. "Whatever he's lording over you, whatever his deal with Elias, and not to mention the number of people he's casually murdered with his vanishing act since he showed up— we can get rid of him."

"Not interested," Martin said. "And really, while you, I mean… you've always been _incredibly_ thorough in your reading, fair enough." He shrugged. "No one else really knows the _minute bylaws_ of the Institute? So I don't see who's going to use this."

And he stepped away, walking around his desk like a man retreating behind a barricade.

"I'm trying to help you," Basira said.

"I don't need help," Martin said.

"We all need help, Martin, for god's sake," Jon said, unable to hold it in anymore. The bright flare of hopefulness had snuffed out so quickly, he was reeling. An avenue to push Lukas out sounded like the best possible path for them all, especially Martin. "You're deep in that man's thrall but this is a way _out."_

"Don't be dramatic," Martin said, putting his hands on the keyboard and apparently starting to work on something. The monitor's light overtook his glasses, blocking them from Jon's view. It itched at him. "Sorry, but I'm not interested. Now if you'll excuse me."

Basira stood there, watching for a solid seven seconds before she nodded once. "Right. Come on, Jon."

"Basira, we can't just—" He didn't want to give in so easily.

"Let's go." She beckoned, and left the room.

Casting one last glance back at Martin, Jon followed.

* * *

Back down in the Archives, Jon tried to console her. "It was a good idea. A very sharp catch."

"Yeah," Basira said, sitting at her desk without looking at him. "I know."

The implicit dismissal wasn't shocking. Basira held her cards close to her chest at all times these days, and even if the effect was frustrating, Jon was used to it.

Sighing, Jon returned to his office.

His tea was cold, but he finished the cup anyway, settling in and trying to squash the rather immature, unhelpful sense of entitlement that wanted to take him. It wasn't fair that Martin was still locked into this deal, that the entire Institute was under the whims of a man like Lukas, and that said man didn't bother to even show up for extended periods of time.

But, if Martin didn't want to use the information, then what could be done? Maybe another day, Jon could catch Martin and try to bring it up again. Preferably before Lukas ruined the chance by showing his face somewhere in the Institute.

Jon was still frankly sulking over this outcome when an icon on his desktop started flashing a gentle orange. It was his office inbox. His was configured carefully to block out most communications with his coworkers. Messages from the Archive staff were an exception.

Clicking on it, he pulled up the mail application.

There was a message from Basira. Subject line: _"Concerning the negligence of Peter Lukas, Head of Institute."_

When Jon opened the message, he found he couldn't even see it. Above the body of the email was a massive cloud of other email addresses. About fifty of them, before the rest folded under a helpful ellipsis. Clicking on _that_, the others appeared, and Jon estimated there must've been almost three hundred addresses.

Realizing what she'd done, Jon stood slowly back up and walked to his open door.

At her desk, Basira had her arms crossed, her eyes trained on her laptop screen. There was a very faint smirk on her lips.

"Basira," Jon began slowly.

"Yeah?"

"Did you CC the entire institute?"

The phantom smirk blossomed into something brighter and crueler. "Yeah. I did."

Jon left the basement again and began the trip back to the top floor.

Martin's door was open now, and there were people in his office. Multiple people. This was practically unprecedented. 

Peering around the door frame, Jon saw the Magnus Institute's legal and HR teams speaking to Martin. Several of them were armed with heavy ring-binders full of documents as they spoke.

From his seat, Martin stared up at them, a line between his eyebrows as they furrowed deeply. His lips were parted around his silence as he listened to the people talking to him.

Someone asked when the last time Peter Lukas had been in contact with him was. Martin said, "I don't know, does it matter so much?"

Then, "No, I don't have any phone records or texts from him."

Then, "No, I— I don't have his phone number. I'm not sure he _has_ a mobile, to be honest?"

Then, with sagging resignation, "I don't have any records of that, no."

Then, with a little desperation, "All of this is just— this isn't helping! He leaves all the time, we all know he's barely here! But you can't just, you can't remove him! He and I are the only people who know how to run the place right now, unless you want to spring a convicted murderer from prison! What exactly do you plan to do after invoking this ridiculous clause on him?"

Already, someone on the legal team was flipping through the ring-binder, and Jon _knew._

Stepping into the room, he touched his fingers against the arm of one of the people. A woman, Evie, head of HR. She glanced at him.

"Is it fair to assume each head of department gets a vote?" he asked, voice pitched low.

"We'll email you details," she said in an equally quiet voice.

"Thank you," Jon said, and slipped back out of the room, leaving Martin to the tender mercies of the law, as it were.

* * *

For two days, Jon didn't see Martin at all.

Then, Martin was leaning against the front of Jon's desk come morning as he entered his office.

"I cannot," Martin said, a flush high in his cheeks, "believe you! I can't believe you've done this!"

Smiling would not do him any favors, but god, it was hard to resist. Jon shut the door behind him and circled his desk, putting down his bag. "Would you like some tea?"

"Some— what?" The train of Martin's thought seemed derailed.

"I was just going to put the kettle on," Jon said amicably. "It seems polite to offer tea to one's superior."

"I cannot _believe_ you've done this!"

Jon turned on the kettle and took two cups down. He wasn't sure how Martin took his until he focused a little and the answer appeared helpfully in the fore of his mind. Spooning out sugar, he said, "I've not done anything, honestly. It was all Basira's work. In this sole and particular case, I am blameless."

"You voted for me!"

Looking over at him, Jon frowned. "It was a blind ballot."

"I'm not an idiot, Jon!" All at once, the anger seemed to run out on Martin, and he sat down heavily in the visitor's chair. "This is such a disaster. How did this all go wrong?"

Blowing out a low breath, Jon poured the hot water. "I think this is an instance of things going _right,_ really."

"How?" A bitter smile curved his mouth. "In what sense?"

The answer that came swiftly to mind was simple: after months of barely seeing Martin and being barred from seeking him out, now Martin was sitting in the quiet solace of Jon's office, and the sight of him was rejuvenating in a way Jon hadn't anticipated, even at his most lonely and despondent.

But Martin wouldn't like such a selfish answer, so instead Jon said, "We've all been watching from afar as Lukas isolated you from us. Everyone knows his body count is nearly double digits now. And given his connection to Elias, he can't be trusted. So, getting rid of him seems to be a completely positive move from where I'm standing."

"Yes, and now I'm head of the institute!" Martin took a deep breath, shutting his eyes. "Oh my god, I'm head of the institute."

Jon set the tea out for both of them and took his own seat. With Martin so close, he could see the changes that had come to pass during this long, terrible absence. Martin's hair was longer, enough he was pulling it back to the nape of his neck with a clasp. There was a new sharpness to his chin, his cheeks. He'd lost weight, though not in any good way. The fullness of him was drained, and he seemed impossibly smaller now. 

Savagely, Jon hoped wherever Lukas was, whatever port he'd sailed out of, that the bastard hit rough waters and capsized.

Taking a sip of tea, Jon calmed himself. "My understanding is you've been head of the institute a while now. All the business out of the main office has been done through your account."

"With Peter's approval," Martin protested.

"And his oversight? His help?"

That, at least, drew a pained smile to Martin's face. "Mm. Not really how Peter works."

"Then the point stands."

Opening his eyes, Martin turned his eerie, pale blue gaze onto Jon. "Do you not see any problem with this? The fellow who lied on his CV running the entire place?"

"Sounds like excellent class warfare to me," Jon said, saluting Martin with his cup.

"Ha ha, hilarious." He lowered his gaze to his own tea, just staring at it for the time being. "And what if Peter comes back? What if he walks in tomorrow?"

"Don't care. That's his problem."

"And what if I say no. Refuse the job."

Jon sighed. "Then? Then I would… be very happy to have you back in the basement." _With me._ "But as much as I… While I privately would enjoy that opportunity, I think it's a good idea. Having you running the place."

Martin scoffed. "You'll have to explain that one to me."

"I prefer the devil I know to the one I don't, but I'd take you over them both, Martin." He leaned forward on the desk. "You've been putting on this whole show of not caring, but I don't— I don't believe it. I think you care more than anybody, and the people here, they're stuck here, stuck working for Beholding and locked into this mess. I think it'd be good if there was someone on their side running the place at least."

"And what can I do," Martin murmured.

"Well, you're not likely to kill any of them, so that's already several points on your side of the board."

"I know that… the vanishing thing is important, and I get that," Martin said. "But as strange as it is, can we put it aside?"

"If you like." He thought it a very important foundation for the argument, all things considered. "What are— hm, nope, question. I suppose I am _wondering_ what you're so afraid of?"

"I don't know," Martin murmured. "Maybe ask me? Though I appreciate the, that little verbal autocorrect, that's very good."

"I'm trying. So. _What about this job makes you so afraid?"_

Compulsion ran over Martin's face like paint over a canvas, emphasizing his expression even as his eyes went half-lidded under the rich coating. It reminded Jon of dark chocolate; tempered and shining with a bite to it. He couldn't imagine the actual experience was so pleasant, though he never had the courage to ask _that._

"I'm afraid that Peter will return and see how I've f-failed him. What we were doing. Or he'll look at me and know I've been playing him." And Martin slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes popping wide again. "Dammit," he said, muffled.

Oh. _Oh._ God, the rush of reassurance was heady. Jon rose out of his chair a little, still leaning on his elbows. _"How were you playing Peter Lukas?"_

"Trying to figure out his _real_ plan, not the one he was trying to pitch me on. I still have no idea what it was. I assumed that, given how he's absolutely allergic to any direct conversation, I would have to follow along for some time to get to whatever the point was." Martin blinked away the compulsion. "Ah. Well. Now you know."

Now he knew. Jon let out a long breath, his head hanging heavy from his neck. "Right." He was tired, almost aching from the tension release of these revelations.

There was the soft noise of a cup being set down. "I need to head back to the office. I'm to understand there's… a lot of papers for me to sign."

Jon lifted his head, watching Martin stand and fix the lay of his suit jacket. He looked very good. "I'll see you again?" Jon asked, unable to stop.

Martin met his gaze. "Yeah, Jon. We'll— yes. I'll see you later, alright?"

"I'll see you," Jon promised, and watched him slip out the door. His footsteps were strangely silent, matching the unnatural new hue of his eyes.

Not everything would be solved in a single day, but this was progress. It was more than Jon had managed since he'd woken up.

Folding his hands together, he pressed his fingers to his mouth, letting out a sigh of relief.


	2. Chapter 2

Given the new circumstances of the Institute, there was no reason for Jon not to see Martin around more often. He certainly expected to, and took to leaving his office door ajar, giving him a clear view from his desk down past the bullpen and to the stairwell.

Every time someone's steps came down from the ground level, Jon looked up and peer over.

But it was always Melanie, or Basira, or Daisy. Who were all— fine, good, wonderful people. He was glad they were around to help, to keep him in check as necessary.

It wasn't rational. Jon had been the one to insist Martin keep the new position, and the Institute was not run from the basement. Besides, he could _ feel _ Martin upstairs. It reminded him of old RTS games he played back when he had time for leisure; a facet of the user interface often included a marker for special units, a star or a crown hovering over them so they weren't lost against the game's map. Martin was marked similarly, an emblem always in the background of Jon's mind.

He needed to stop looking over at the stairs. Heaving a deep breath, he took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes.

"Are you still mopin' down here?"

Jon spun in his chair so fast, he caught his hand in a pinch against the desk and swore colorfully.

Daisy, sitting cross-legged on the table in the corner of the office with her hands resting gently on her knees, lifted a single, extremely judgemental eyebrow at him. "Did you forget I was here?"

Jon didn't know she was there, but said, "I, _ shit _ that stings, yes, I didn't—" Rubbing his hand, he examined the hurt. It frankly blended in with all the other marks on his burned hand. "What were you saying?"

"I mean, I thought you'd do a statement or something. You have that long, lean look to you today," she said, her quiet timbre humming around her words. "You keep staring over there."

"Maybe I'm waiting for someone," Jon said, and winced. Oh, who could he _ possibly _ mean? The number of people who would be visit the archives could be counted on one hand.

"He'll not come down here," Daisy said.

"Maybe I mean Basira."

"Maybe I don't mean Martin."

He fixed her with a glare. "He won't come down here, you said?"

She shrugged. "Not the sort of thing you stop doin', is it? The routine you've followed for almost a year. He even kicked me out of his office once, which I didn't expect."

"Did he really," Jon mused, trying to imagine it. The time when Martin was afraid of Daisy didn't seem so long ago. But that was maybe fair; Jon wasn't particularly frightened of her anymore either.

She tipped her head at him. There was always, perpetually, going to be that particular keenness in her eyes. Often, Jon wondered if he shone a light at her, if her eyes would reflect it like a cat. One day, that curiosity would probably become too great to ignore, but he was keeping a handle of it for now.

But despite that, she was sitting on his table and waiting to listen to a statement.

Picking one out out of the stack of papers, Jon let out a low sigh. "I hoped he'd come visit."

"Yeah. But if he doesn't?"

"Maybe I'll bring him a cup of tea." There was fresh tape waiting in the top drawer of his desk. He popped it into the recorder.

"Relationships are work, you know," Daisy said. "You can't just put in a token effort then expect it all to go back to normal. Normal doesn't exist for people like us."

"Recording now," Jon said, pressing the appropriate button. "Statement of Diane Crayton, concerning a strange man she met in her youth. Statement begins."

* * *

He didn't end up bringing tea, because carrying a cup up several floors seemed a recipe for first-degree burns, and he didn't need any more of those.

The office had been Elias' and later Lukas'. Now it seemed to be transitioning into being Martin's office; he'd used it the past week solid without his usual hop around to the others.

There was a large painted portrait of Jonah Magnus, standing steward over the hallway outside. Jon met the painting's eyes briefly, narrowing his own before letting himself into the office.

"Knock, please," Martin said from where he was sitting behind the desk. There were several folders scattered around him in neat stacks, and one in his hands, flipped open as his eyes skated over the pages. His tie was significantly loosened and his face was creased into an expression of annoyed concern as he read.

"Sorry," Jon said, and kept a hand on the door knob so to shut it silently.

Blinking slowly, Martin looked up at him. "Oh, hi."

It was difficult to tell from two syllables if Martin was pleased to see him or not. More information was needed. Jon approached the desk and gingerly settled into one of the guest chairs. "How is it all going?" He nodded to the stacks of folders. "You seem… as occupied as ever. They do let you out sometimes, right?"

Martin brandished his folder at Jon. "You and Basira both, still have no idea what you've done. Did you know that I've had a meeting with the researchers today? Half a dozen of them trying to pitch me on all these tests and projects they want to try with the things in artefact storage." He slapped the folder down on the desk. "And _ did you know _ that any artefact use has to be approved by the Head of Institute first?"

Jon let out a huff of laughter. "I vaguely remember, from working there? I think the last time I did anything with artefact storage, I just went in with the axe. Didn't quite wait around for a stamp of approval."

Shutting his eyes, Martin sighed. "Yes, Jon. And that pretty much proves exactly why the approval process exists."

"Fair point," he said, a little sheepishly. Destroying the table had not been his wisest move, though it'd felt like a good idea at the time. "Besides reining in the intrepid spirits of the research department, how— how are you? Is it working out so far?"

"I…" There was a small downturn of his mouth as Martin lowered his gaze to the desk itself, his fingers tapping against it slowly. "It's complicated. I can do it, though. Most of it is stuff I was already doing. It's the other things."

Jon gave Martin his most attentive look, nodding helpfully.

"People come to see me now. They didn't before, not really. Stuff that could easily be handled by email, they bring right in." The staccato beat of his fingers got quicker, agitated.

"And you don't like that," Jon offered.

"No! No, it's— god, look." He didn't quite meet Jon's eyes, looking at Jon's shoulder instead. "I think… maybe less about me and more they're relieved Peter's out. And I can't fault that at all."

"But it's hard to go back after being aggressively courted by the Lonely."

"Something like that." His fingers caught the corner of his folder, turning it to a neat right angle facing him. "I haven't been down to see— to the archives. There's just been, I mean, look at all these proposals! I have to finish reading them today because I have _ other _ meetings tomorrow."

Reaching out, Jon picked one from the top of a stack, pulling it towards him.

"Put it back when you're done. That's my maybe-with-a-big-question-mark pile. I need to get more information on those."

Nodding, Jon leaned back and opened the folder. It was concerning a silver gilt jar filled with a Turkish pistachio treat of some kind. It was _ always _ filled with Turkish pistachio treats, no matter how many were removed from the jar. A researcher wanted to test the limits of this and learn how it worked.

But, "The British officer who found this jar stole it. It sat on the shelf in the family's home. The grandfather cried, told the officer it was the most precious thing they had, words in stilted desperate English entreating the officer. But the officer was hungry, had been hungry for six weeks, was eating everything he could to try and find something that would slake his need. He bashed the grandfather's head with the butt of his rifle and took the jar. With each foil-wrapped candy, his hunger worsened until it devoured him from the inside out. An acolyte of the Flesh took his remains and buried them in soft earth. A pit will open there, someday."

It was quiet in the room but for the pendulum swing of the clock on the wall. Martin stared at Jon, lips parted.

"So…" He cleared his throat. "I'll just… put that one in the no pile."

"Probably for the best," Jon said, handing it over. "Sorry, I do that now sometimes."

"Maybe don't touch the others," Martin said. "Not that I don't appreciate the help, but I worry about… you seeing things. Especially given the cost."

A very diplomatic way of putting it. "What if I get you help? I can loan you someone. Basira is obvious a very brisk reader—"

_ "Not _ Basira," Martin said coldly.

Jon couldn't help reeling back from the force of his tone. "My god, are you _ angry _ with her?"

His lips pressed together in a pale, severe line. "Yeah, Jon, a bit."

"Martin, that's not fair."

"I don't particularly care if its fair. She went over my head after I told her no. Even _ you _ have the decency to listen when you're directly told something."

"Not sure I love that comparison, but." Jon inhaled deeply. "Melanie, then. She'd probably be happy to be out of the archives anyway."

"Sure. That'd… help. Thanks."

Then, horribly, Jon didn't have anything else. No other reason to stay. He needed to tell Melanie to come up here and he didn't have anything else to discuss at the moment and sitting there staring at Martin as he resumed reading was probably a little... much. A tad creepy.

Maybe next time he'd bring some reports to read. That'd work.

For now, as he left, Martin told him, "Bye, Jon," in such a soft voice, it was nearly lost against that damn clock's loud swinging.

* * *

Melanie was predictably amenable to working with Martin. At first. She seemed less amenable about talking to Jon about it.

"How is he?" Jon asked when she returned downstairs late in the day, having spent the afternoon upstairs.

"Didn't you just see him, like, five hours ago?" Melanie asked him archly. "Haven't you got like eyes all over the institute to watch people?"

"No, that's _ Elias. _ My powers are not of the eternal managerial voyeur. Just knowing random things and _ very _ good hunches."

"And cracking open people's secrets like walnut shells, don't forget that." She packed her bag briskly. "He's fine. Just overwhelmed. You want to fuss, go and fuss."

"I'm _ trying _ not to be part of what's overwhelming him."

"Whatever you like." She slung the bag over her shoulder. "He looks better than you, frankly. Have you worn anything not bought in a thrift since you woke up?"

Jon hadn't meant _ fashion. _ "I haven't exactly had time to run to Soho for some shopping. Busy saving the world."

"There's these things, websites? You can look at things on them, and sometimes? You can _ buy the things. _ What a brave new world of technology we live in." Melanie straightened and suddenly leaned into Jon's space, immediately startling him backward. "Though maybe we should get you a mail order catalog instead. Seems more your speed. Telegram service to the newest store."

"Your continued insistence that I'm some old crone compared to your spritely youth—"

"I'm going to be late for therapy." She sighed explosively. "Thanks for getting me out of the basement. Feel free to, you know, do that again if you want. But also please also buy a ladder and get over yourself."

"Right." He watched her go, tucking his hands into his pockets.

Pockets of jeans that… Basira had _ definitely _ brought him after his coma. He hadn't noticed; his flat, that he had so optimistically leased back before the Unknowing, was long gone and he wasn't sure where his things had wound up. Most of what Jon thought of as _ his _ lived in the Institute. He hadn't even gotten around to changing the locks of the flat.

Meanwhile, Martin wore nice trousers and pale grey linens and so much seafoam blue, it made the strange color of his eyes stand out all the more. Everything seemed picked for him with malice aforethought.

Thinking about it made Jon's fingers itch.

"What," Jon growled low in his throat, "is _ wrong _ with me?"

"Do you want a real answer to that?"

Jon jumped, and spun.

Daisy was sitting on top of Basira's desk, her legs folded in front of her. Her lips quirked up at Jon's glare.

"This new hobby of yours, sitting on things and being cryptic," Jon said.

Her teeth appeared in a rare grin. "Yeah?"

"Not a fan," Jon answered.

"This is why your no one's favorite, Jon." She flicked an invisible bit of dust off her knee. "You know what your problem is?"

Oh, here they went. He spun Melanie's chair around and sat in it to face Daisy. "I'm eager for wisdom."

"You're like a dog that's never been to hunt. When it manages to catch a rabbit, it's got no idea what to do about it. Doesn't have the instincts to kill. Liable to just let it go and lose it again."

"Right." More comparisons that he wasn't really fond of. "Then I need to… learn to kill Martin. My god, you've solved it."

Daisy rolled her eyes. "Don't be obtuse."

He smiled. "I can only be what I am."

"Listen. I'm… dealing with the same." Her eyes settled on his face, sharp like a knife dragging harmlessly along his skin. "Since the coffin. After so long with everything going straight to hell, having something _ decent _ happen… I'm still not sure what to do with that, you know? Same with you, I think."

"That does sound familiar," Jon admitted softly. "Everything has been going wrong for such an extended period of time. I feel like I've forgotten how to breathe." He winced. "Perhaps not the best phrasing."

"It's fine." She stretched her arms, high over her head. "People like us. We never get to think about it. What we actually _ want." _

"I wanted Martin safe from Lukas. Basira did that."

"Right. And then what?"

Good question.

Daisy held one of her wrists and pulled, bending her own body in a way that made Jon feel tense just looking at. "You think on it. It's late. Don't know where Basira is, but I'm turning in. Figure out something you want and go tell him about it." Unfolding, she hopped off the desk and onto her feet. "For the moment, we have the rogue elements rooted out of this place. Best use that while you can."

"Thank you, Daisy," Jon said. "Sleep well."

She left, dropping through the trapdoor. Jon assumed she and Basira had a bed set up down there, but didn't feel the need to ask.

Alone in the archive, it was quiet. There were times when the ceiling seemed a little thin and he could feel the movement of people going about their work on the ground floor. But this late at night, the Institute was cleared of most people and the stillness settled over him. Even the air felt calmer, without anyone disturbing it.

Jon looked at the shelves, the completed cases and the much more plentiful open cases that he could pick up. A few called to him, asking him to take a closer look, to Behold and see what they contained. A simmering hot promise of something worthwhile.

Rolling his head back, he looked skyward, through the ceiling and walls separating them.

* * *

Jon walked into the office with a flat box of containers, bumping the door shut behind him with his hip. "So I've been talking to Daisy, who is perhaps the smartest person in this entire building."

He turned, and shut his mouth with a snap.

Martin's head was laid over his folded arms, his glasses awkwardly pressing away from his face at an angle. His loose curls were falling out from the clasp he used, brushing the desktop as he breathed softly.

"Oh," Jon managed.

Somehow, barging in hadn't woken Martin, but _ that _ surprised exhale did. He gasped and lifted his face, pressing a hand against his cheek where he'd been laying on a notebook. "M'up, Peter, could you not—" He pushed up his glasses and squinted at Jon. "Oh."

"I didn't mean to wake you. I didn't know you were sleeping in your office." That explained the drawn way Martin looked these days.

"Not supposed to leave the Institute. Too dangerous." He rubbed his face with both hands, then dragged his hair back, resetting the clasp so it held his flyaway hair back. "What's that?"

"I brought dinner." He moved to set the box on the desk.

"Did you— you didn't go outside?" Martin's voice jumped a solid octave in outrage and fear.

"No. Melanie was informing me of this wonderful thing call _ delivery _ earlier today." He started unpacking the box. "Something an octogenarian like me apparently has never heard of."

"What? Oh. I guess that's fine then." He rubbed his face again, humming as he tried to wake up. "You brought food."

"Yes. Wake up, Martin, honestly." Jon set out a tub of soup, put a spoon on top, pushed the entire thing over to Martin. Then he unwrapped the bread, inhaling deeply as the office suddenly smelled of fresh baking.

"You brought me food," Martin said, tipping the container with a finger to look at it. "Is this soup?"

"It is."

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes. Why wouldn't I be?" Jon sat down and opened his own container. Tearing off a piece of bread, he dipped it into the thick bisque. "I was saying, Daisy and I have been talking. We should figure out what we want to do."

"In what sense?"

"Big picture. We have unique opportunities. The institute is ours." He fanned his fingers out, trying to encompass everything around them. "You and Melanie removed Elias. Basira removed Lukas. You're Head of the Institute, and I'm… your Archivist." He smiled. "For once we might not be on our heels."

Martin nodded, stirring his soup. "That… might be a wholly unique situation for us?"

"Strike while the iron is hot."

"And do… what?" He looked less enthusiastic about the prospect. "I'm not sure what you want to do."

"Nor do I! I've been considering that." He paused to eat for a moment, letting the thought percolate. "I want to ensure no progress is made towards this Watcher's Crown, but also keep the other rituals in check."

Then, Jon gestured to Martin with his spoon.

Straightening, Martin said, "Me? I, uh. I dunno."

"Think about it."

He seemed to; silence filled in around the office as they ate, only broken by soft sounds of bread being pulled apart and breathing. And that damned clock.

Jon looked at it, standing by the wall. It was a grand piece with golden hands and a large sphere swinging from the pendulum.

The sphere was very reflective, and as it swung seemed to show the entire room, inverted but crystal perfect.

Getting up, Jon walked over to the clock, opening its glass door.

"What are you doing?" Martin asked, sitting up.

Reaching in, Jon stilled the pendulum. Curling his fingers around the rod, he lifted, unhooking it from its moor and drawing it out.

"Jon?"

"This was Elias' office." He swung it, back past his legs, then carried it up and forward. The sphere was satisfyingly heavy and landed solidly over his shoulder.

"Do you… you don't think…" Martin's face pulled into a tight, unhappy expression. "He had his usual smug omniscience last I saw him."

"You saw him?"

"I had questions about Peter."

"Hm." Jon looked around the room. There was a thick carpet over half the room, spread over the hardwood. "Do you mind? This might be loud."

"Don't hurt yourself," Martin said. His hand covered his mouth as he watched.

Nodding, Jon resettled his hands on the rod and squared his legs shoulder-width apart.

Getting the pendulum off his shoulder was the hardest part, his arms straining from the heft of it. But then it fell easily, the sphere slamming into the rug with a loud thudding crash. The rod shook, shocking his hands, and Jon jerked them back, hissing at the vibration and pain.

The entire piece shook on the floor for a moment before going still. The sphere's perfect reflection was ruined, the surface severely dented.

Jon shook out his hands. "Just in case."

Martin gave a contemplative frown. "Eyes. Gertrude Robinson, she cut out all the eyes, kept an office down in the tunnels, anything to avoid being watched." A flicker of satisfaction stole over Martin's face. "We can do that."

"Literal eyes, metaphorical eyes, anything he might use. Destroy them all." Jon felt an almost feral grin contort his face. "Blighting the eyes of Beholding."

"It's always good to mess with Elias." A thread of delight wove into Martin's tone; it had been, god, literally over a year since Jon had heard that. He looked up, staring at Martin, the vindictive but genuine smile on his face. "I don't… do you think it'll help?"

"If this place is like some temple to the Eye? I think its worth a try."

"Will it hurt you?" Martin asked, suddenly concerned.

That was a fair point, but Jon shrugged it off. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Or after we've burned it down."

Martin looked around the room; Jon thought he was looking for more eyes. When nothing seemed obvious, he nodded, and picked up a pen, flipping to a new page in his notebook. "Alright. What else?"

Returning to his seat, Jon leaned forward on the desk, a thrill of mischief in his blood. Between them, they'd come up with _ something. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daisy and Jon's friendship is my favorite thing in S4, it's just too good.


End file.
